Chapter Thirty-Eight
Josie
Our eyes lock onto the photograph: a haunting image of Joanna Neal’s lifeless form. Her face, once captured in happier moments within the frames of family photos, now bears the weight of tragedy. Even in death, her beauty remains.
Crimson stains mar the scene, pooling around her head and matting her hair. The brutality is palpable. Someone has unleashed their fury upon her, leaving behind a shattered existence. Joanna’s eyes remain closed, as though seeking refuge from the horrors she endured in those final moments.
Dario’s guttural groan reverberates throughout the room, laden with shock and sorrow.
The air thickens, heavy with the weight of loss and unanswered questions.
We stand there, mere spectators of this tragedy, unable to tear our gaze away from the frozen frame that encapsulates Joanna Neal’s final breath.
Her arms bear the cruel marks of violence. Bruises that paint her skin in shades of blue. I can barely bring myself to look at the photo.
‘Damn it,’ curses Roy, breaking the silence, his frustration palpable. Like the rest of us, he knows that the storm of blame will soon descend upon us. We’ll bear the brunt of this investigation, the fallout from a crime we failed to solve.
My phone trills. It’s Gil. She’s sobbing.
‘Gil,’ I say, ‘calm down. Speak slowly.’
‘Someone…’ she begins, then hiccups. ‘Someone sent me a photo of Jo.’ There is a tortured moan before she adds, ‘I think she’s dead.’
‘We’ve had a photo too. You’d better come in.’
But there’s more, a cruel twist to this macabre puzzle. I tip the envelope, and a flash drive slips out. A label stuck across it reads: Joanna.
Roy snatches it, and there is urgency in his eyes. He puts it into his laptop, connects the speakers, and we wait, our collective breaths held. The computer has become the epicentre of our attention. The haunting melody of ‘Danny Boy’ fills the room.
‘What the fuck?’ says Roy with a scowl, his confusion mirroring our own.
The music ceases abruptly and is replaced by a voice. An eerie overlay, clearly overdubbed so it can’t be recognised.
‘Hello, Danny boy,’ it begins, the tone chillingly calm. ‘I hope you don’t mind that I sent this to the cops. But I thought it would be easier for you. I’m thoughtful like that.’
Bad news follows, an ominous revelation.
Guilt, the speaker insists, is a terrible emotion, one that Danny need not bear. The blame doesn’t lie with him; it lies with Joanna, who ruined everything. She dared to try to escape despite the comforts he provided, excellent food, a lovely haven, and even tampons when she needed them.
‘Whatever she wanted, I got her,’ the voice continues, dripping with bitterness.
‘And then she abused my trust, Danny. She saw my face. You can see I had no choice. You can be proud, though, Danny; she put up a good fight. Anyway, this is goodbye, Danny boy. Oh, just one last thing. There are always consequences, and you betrayed me. I said no police. It wasn’t much to ask.
So I must punish you. I’ve destroyed the body, but I’ve left a few souvenirs for you.
Don’t bother looking for her. She’ll never be found.
You’ll find the mementoes at 13 Millwall Lane, Wootton.
Joanna and I spent some nice days there. Shame she had to spoil things.’
A punishment for betrayal. What kind of monster is this? Joanna’s fate is sealed, her memory now forever entwined with the haunting strains of ‘Danny Boy’. Daniel’s punishment for involving us is never being able to give his wife a proper funeral.
The voice stops, and the ‘Danny Boy’ song starts again.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Roy bellows, switching it off. ‘Someone contact Neal. We need him to identify the body. It could be a prank.’
‘Should we go to Millwall Lane?’ asks Dario.
‘Get Neal here first. As I say, it could be a prank.’
I’m left to phone Daniel Neal, knowing deep in my heart that this is no prank.